


a step back

by nialeta



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, but still be wary if self-harm or suicide is triggering to you please, lapslock, nothing more graphic than canon, probably less graphic than canon actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 13:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10992165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nialeta/pseuds/nialeta
Summary: there's no guidebook on what to do to stay on the path of 'getting better.' because there is no getting better; only hanging on.andrew forgot that, somewhere between a lease signed to two names and a bedroom door he no longer locks.





	a step back

andrew wonders where it went wrong.  
  
he's not stupid; he knows these things don't follow concrete patterns. they're a constant game of two steps forward, one step back, three steps forward, six steps back. things are worse before they're better, and then better before they're worse. there will always be bad days or weeks or months, a voice that sounds like bee's says in his head; you just need to remember that they will always pass. there's no guidebook on what to do to stay on the path of 'getting better.' because there is no getting better; only hanging on.  
  
andrew forgot that, somewhere between a lease signed to two names and a bedroom door he no longer locks.  
  
he can't remember how he got to this point, in a literal sense. in the past days (weeks? months? eternities?), it was like his mind was clouded and sticky, utterly denying andrew anything other than a far-off numbness which, in its own way, felt unreal too.  
  
neil had been there - he always was, and sometimes on Bad Days, andrew hated that; sometimes he would lash out and snarl at him to _get out, get away from me_. neil never retaliated with anything but an understanding patience that grated just as badly. this was different. on those days, andrew felt too much, thought too much, was hyperaware of his clothes against his skin and all the ways someone could subdue him if he wasn't on his guard. on this day, he was sleepwalking. neil had said his name seven times that morning, before andrew grunted wordlessly in response.  
  
and of course, neil knew. he had Bad Days of his own, and was intimately familiar with their symptoms. recently, andrew's Bad Days meant aimless fury, violent urges, and at least four feet of distance between them at all times. they knew how to navigate those days. they were a familiar hurt that couldn't be soothed but could be protected from further aggravation.  
  
andrew hadn't thought to tell neil that today felt different.  
  
everything was so heavy and crowded in his head, stuffed with cotton and lined with sandpaper. he'd watched neil leave, reluctantly, for his evening practice, and andrew felt nothing.  
  
the cats are yowling outside the bathroom door, raking claws loudly against the painted white grain. he thinks, not for the first time, that they are more annoying than they're worth.  
  
andrew's fingers are moving, shakily, over the screen of his phone. he's already hit call before he really knows what he's doing.  
  
_ring ring_  
  
the phone slips from his hand, too slick for his weak fingers to grasp, so he hits the button for speaker phone and lets it sit in the puddle of red on the tile beside him where he sits on the floor. the cats are still throwing tantrums through the door and andrew briefly entertains the idea of locking them in the closet or something. it seems like far too much trouble at the moment, so they retain their freedom.  
  
"-drew? andrew, what is it?"  
  
oh. neil. he'd said andrew's name a few times already.  
  
andrew wonders why he called. what words did he even have?  
  
"andrew, i need you to say something. can you tell me what's wrong?"  
  
it almost sounds like bee's voice in andrew’s head, except bee never let that tinge of worry into her words while they were having a session. she was always calm, unflappable, no matter how andrew needled her.  
  
"what do you need, andrew."  
  
andrew swallows, the action requiring an unreasonable amount of effort.  
  
"i need you."  
  
he could distantly hear neil shouting something away from the phone, and andrew realizes neil is still at practice. had neil kept his phone on him while he played? andrew almost laughs at the turn-around; he remembers when he could barely get neil to keep his phone on him in normal situations.  
  
"i'm coming home now, andrew. stay on the line?"  
  
andrew makes a noise that he thinks is assenting.

he listens to the vague sounds of movement on the other end of the line; deep breaths and rhythmic footsteps of a seasoned runner sprinting through a parking lot; the jingle of keys and the hum of an engine. andrew wonders if neil can hear his blood dripping on the tiles through the phone.

“andrew?”

neil has that questioning tone again. the one that might sound calm to a stranger, but andrew can hear the tension taut beneath the surface.

“i fucked up.”

the words are out of andrew’s mouth before he can think about them. _do i really think that?_ andrew doesn’t believe in regrets, and isn’t sure if he has it in him to really feel sorry. but he thinks he might be able to make an exception, if only because he can picture the look on neil’s face when he finds him like this and feels something like pain in his chest at the thought.

andrew thinks neil pauses, here, probably trying to predict what andrew means by that. or maybe he doesn’t pause at all, andrew can’t really tell; he’s self-aware enough still to know his sense of time is not reliable at this moment.

“do you need an ambulance? andrew? answer me.” andrew thinks now even a stranger would be able to hear the urgency in neil’s voice.

andrew grunts noncommittally and he knows neil takes it as a ‘yes’ when a moment later he hears him rattling off their apartment’s address into another line. he still keeps a burner phone in the glove compartment.

“andrew, talk to me. you need to stay awake.”

andrew hates how well neil knows him, sometimes. he wonders if he is picturing it, and how accurate his image is. does he know what rorschach-esque figures andrew is dripping onto the tile? can he read their meanings?

“you are going to be fine.”

neil says this with a finality that rings out in harmony with _i am not a pipedream_ and _you were amazing_ and andrew has to laugh because _he’s going to be fine?_ isn’t ‘being fine’ more neil’s forte?

“you are going to be fine.”

andrew thinks maybe he said all that out loud, but isn’t sure. his vision is drained of color and his fingers are tingling unpleasantly.

he is aware of neil saying more, but can’t quite find it in him to translate the words into meanings he can understand.

he is so tired.

he doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until a furry weight lands on his lap and he startles back into a fuzzy mimicry of consciousness.

neil is there and the door is still on the hinges because, for some reason, andrew had left the door unlocked. he’s sure bee would have something to say about that, but he doesn’t have the energy for her internal psychoanalysis.

neil is holding his wrists tightly with two white towels acting as a barrier between their skin. his grip is a vice, and andrew almost believes for a moment that neil could hold his blood inside his body through sheer force of will.

neil is speaking lowly, voice even and soothing and andrew would hate how comforting it is to him if he wasn’t so tired.

he’s still in his gear, andrew notices, and he thinks there’s probably a joke there about neil choosing between his two addictions, but he can’t quite reach it, so he settles on,

“274 percent.”

neil’s expression crumples for half a second, so quick andrew is sure he imagined it in his delirium.

there’s a lot of noise, suddenly, coming from somewhere else in the apartment and the cats hiss as menacingly as two hideous, overweight abominations can manage, standing guard between neil and andrew and the rest of the world.

andrew feels a ghost of fear trickle through him; if he weren’t so damn disoriented, he would be on high alert. someone’s in the apartment, someone got in, protect yourself, protect neil-

neil shouts “in here!” and andrew remembers that he’d called an ambulance.

andrew thinks he must have fallen asleep for a second, because the next thing he knows, he is being lifted onto a stretcher and neil is walking beside him and he’s rolled into the elevator. the EMTs are talking with rapid-fire medical lingo that andrew doesn’t care to try to decipher. he finds neil’s eyes, twin points of blue through the graying haze of his vision and they hold his gaze unwaveringly.

 

andrew’s in an ambulance

 

in a hospital

 

in a bed

 

neil is there, sitting in a chair beside him when andrew wakes up. the first thing he notices is the shock of color. the last thing he remembers is neil’s voice, promising again that _you are going to be fine_.

andrew still isn’t sure whether that’s true or not, but he can feel his fingers again so maybe that counts for something.

“i’m not sorry.”

andrew doesn’t mean to say it quite like that, but he lets his statement hang in the air.

“that’s okay.”

of course it is. because neil always just _knows_. and it’s a little infuriating and that, more than anything, makes andrew feel more like himself again.

there’s a pause of silence, comfortable and familiar.

“can i hold your hand?”

both of andrew’s arms are in casts and whatever medication is currently dripping through his IV makes it too difficult to sit up; but when neil laces his fingers through andrew’s, despite all odds, it feels like warmth, and safety, and home.

**Author's Note:**

> me: writing a multi-chapter fic that needs an update  
> me @ me: write an unrelated one-shot. make it sad.
> 
> yell at me at syliase.tumblr.com


End file.
